One Of Us
by Incoming Grapefruit
Summary: Merlin is guilt-ridden and depressed after Lancelot's death. The knights are concerned. Set after 4.02.
1. Chapter 1

**_The first chapter of a four-parter, set a few weeks after 4.02. The look of guilt and devastation on poor Merlin's face burnt itself into the back of my mind, and the plot bunnies went haywire. After months of writer's block and TOO MUCH WORK *grumblegrumble*, the bunnies were eager for a little exercise. I let them run rampant. This is the result._**

**_Standard Disclaimer: Nope, don't own any of it. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Diddley-squat. _**

**_Enjoy!_**

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><p>The lone figure trailed slowly along the border of the training fields, a single moving shadow amid a moonlit sea. Night had fallen fast, chilling the late summer air with a bitter breeze that tugged at the man's tunic and stiffened his gate. He walked with a hunched frame, arms curled about his waist in a futile attempt to stave off the cold. His tread was slow and weighted, almost melancholy, as though he carried some unseen burden upon his shoulders. A strong gust of wind made him stumble, teasing his neckerchief so that it flapped about his face, and he yanked it back down again with a sort of grim determination before wrapping his arms more firmly about his chest and marching resolutely onwards.<p>

From a chamber window high above, a pair of watchful eyes tracked his progress.

"He's at it again."

"It's getting late." Percival's brow creased, though he did not divert his attention from the blade of his sword as he ran the whetstone along its edge. "He should be in bed."

"As should we all," Gwaine grumbled from his splayed position on the hearth rug. "And yet here we are."

Sir Leon rolled his eyes, setting a sheet of parchment aside and reaching for another. "You could at least _pretend_ to be working."

"Elyan isn't doing anything."

The knight at the window waved a dismissive hand, tucking one leg up against his chest and stretching out the other across the padded window-seat. "I'm keeping watch."

"You can leave if you want to, Gwaine." Leon nudged Percival and gestured towards a scroll on the far side of the table, nodding his thanks as it was passed to him. "You aren't honour-bound to sit here all night and watch me work."

"No, m'fine here." Gwaine rolled onto his stomach, pillowing his head in his arms as he closed his eyes. "Thanks anyway."

"Leon," Elyan said softly, his tone grave, turning his back on the window so that he could face the senior knight, "we can't let him carry on like this. It isn't right."

The room stilled. It was a sentiment they all shared, and one that by some unspoken agreement they had tried to overlook these past few weeks. With the city – nay, the whole _kingdom_ – in turmoil after being brought to its knees by so shattering a blow, they had been too occupied to dwell on Lancelot's demise; too bound to their duty to grieve for the loss of a fallen brother. For three days they had ridden out beyond the lower towns to retrieve the bodies of the dead who lay scattered across the surrounding farmland. Hundreds lay slain, whole villages wiped out in a single night, friends and kinsmen alike. Cart after cart had passed through the gates, groaning under the weight of countless corpses.

With the veil resealed, the unnatural frost that had once preserved the bodies had thawed in the late summer sun. With scores of rotting corpses lining the streets and the threat of disease imminent, they had been forced to act with haste. There had been no time for formal burial. None to honour the dead as they deserved, none to weep for the children murdered silently in their beds.

The great pyres had burned long into the night, fierce flames that would weave and twist in a hellish dance that stung the wearied, weakened eyes of those who watched. Even when the kindle had become nought but glowing embers and charred ashes, the smell had still lingered. That acrid, choking stench of burning flesh. It had thickened the air for days, seeping through wood and stone, clinging to cloth and tapestry until everything stank of death.

Between attending to Arthur and assisting Gaius in caring for the injured and bereaved townsfolk, Merlin had been in state of constant motion. The knights had seen little of him since their return from the Isle of the Blessed. However, on the evening of the sixth day when they had assembled, as often they did, in Sir Leon's chambers to grieve for their own loss in the only way they knew – sharing tales of their past adventures and draining a few too many wineskins – Elyan had spied their youngest companion from his usual perch on the window seat. They had thought nothing of it at first, acknowledging Merlin's kinship with their fallen comrade and understanding his desire to be alone. But almost a fortnight had passed since then and their young friend had yet to speak to any of them, save for a handful of courteous words exchanged in passing. And he was pale – far too pale. It highlighted the dark half-circles beneath his eyes and the angular cheekbones that stood out far too prominently. He looked positively _ill_.

"Leon?"

The noblemen sighed as he set down his quill, leaning back in his chair. His fingers absently traced the crest on his signet ring. "How many nights?"

Elyan shifted so that he could again glance out of the window. "Tonight makes twelve. Although who knows how long he'd been doing it before we noticed?"

The older man nodded slowly, eyes distant. "Every night since...?"

"Yes."

There was a moment of respectful silence, tinged with pain and grief from a wound that was still too raw. Gwaine pushed himself up onto his elbows and reached for his drink. Turning his gaze to the empty stool in the corner, he tipped the goblet towards it in a silent toast and drained the lukewarm liquid in a single gulp.

"Maybe I should talk to him," Leon said at last, his tone heavy with fatigue. "Let him know he's not alone in his grief."

Elyan shook his head, turning again to face the older knight. "It's not his grief that's troubling me, it's his method of dealing with it. This has to stop, for his own sake."

"He's not like the rest of us, Elyan," Percival reasoned, re-sheathing his sword with practised ease. "He isn't accustomed to death as we are. He's just a lad."

Leon shook his head. "Merlin's no stranger to death. And in these past few years, he's lost more than most. I've seen him grieve before. And this," he sighed again, running a finger along the feather of his quill, "this is more than grief. This is..."

"Guilt." Three heads turned towards the hearthrug, where Gwaine now sat with his back pressed against the mantel and his legs pulled up to his chest. "Merlin was going to sacrifice himself to save Arthur, you know." The others looked at him with various degrees of surprise. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, smiling grimly. "It wasn't hard to guess. The look on his face when we reached the Isle of the Blessed said everything. He had every intention to step through that veil in Arthur's place."

"But Lancelot beat him to it," Leon finished softly, rubbing at his chin as he sighed. "No wonder the poor lad blames himself."

"You should talk to him," Elyan urged, leaning forward and letting his hands drop between his knees. "He listens to you. And we can hardly send Gwaine."

The affronted knight shot him a wounded look. "Why not?"

"Because you're drunk," Percival mumbled.

"I am _not_."

Elyan pointed at the empty wine goblet that lay on its side at the man's hip. "You've downed half a dozen of those since we arrived. I'd be hopeless after three."

Gwaine snorted. "Girl."

"Enough." Leon raised a hand, shooting Elyan a _look_ that made him freeze mid-throw, the empty goblet poised above his head. The younger man sighed exaggeratedly, but obediently tossed the makeshift projectile onto the cushion beside him. Leon nodded and stood to his feet. "So it's decided, then. I'll go and talk to him."

Leaving the chainmail on its stand, he threw his cloak about his shoulders and fastened the clasp deftly with one hand, reaching for his sword with the other. Percival cleared his throat pointedly, and Leon glanced up to see him shaking his head, gesturing at the weapon with his eyes. The older knight sighed and took up his dagger instead, threading the scabbard tie through his belt at his hip so that the weapon was easily concealed within the folds of his cloak. The blade was too light, and Leon found himself feeling strangely naked without the familiar weight of his sword and chainmail. He tugged at the tunic to straighten out the creases, turning to face the other occupants of the room.

"I take it you're all staying?"

"Where else would we go?" Elyan grinned at him from the window-seat. "You have the best view in the castle."

Leon frowned. "You're all going to sit up here and laugh at me, aren't you?"

The younger man's grin widened. "Naturally."

"We know firsthand that strong winds and those cloaks don't get along," Gwaine supplied helpfully. "And your hair goes all," he held both hands several inches above his head, eyes glinting as he smiled. "Come, brother, you can't deny us the chance to see some quality entertainment."

The bearded man's frown deepened into a scowl. "I hate you all." He spun towards the door, cloak already billowing out behind him dramatically. He paused at the threshold to level them all with a _look_, before sweeping from the room with a parting;

"And try not to burn the place down while I'm gone."

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><p><strong><em>The first chapter was indeed quite short, but it seemed to end well there. In chapter 2 we'll see a little bit more of poor guilt-ridden Merlin and a few royal horses with...interesting personalities. And Sir Leon. Lots and lots of Leon. ;D<em>**

**_Feel free to leave a review! Or PM me if you prefer. I'd love to know your thoughts. :)_**

**_See you in a week or so!_**

**_xxx_**


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hello again, dear readers. :)_**

**_Yes, I know...I'm horribly, terribly late with this second chapter. What can I say? Morgana manifests herself as university coursework and job applications in RL. I've been searching for a suitable Emrys substitute, but haven't had much luck so far. *sigh*_**

**_However - I have returned! And there are a few things you should know about the following few chapters:  
><em>**

**_a) This isn't the original chapter length, but the word count had crept above 5500 and there was still more to come, so I decided to cut it in half._**

**_b) Consequently, Leon does not feature in this chapter. HOWEVER, the Merlin/Leon interaction (*cough*fluff alert*cough*) has already been written._**

**_c) The next chapter will definitely be posted within a fortnight. I'd post it sooner, but I have two major exams next week and a whole lot of Christmas socialising to do._**

**_Thank you SO much for the overwhelmingly positive feedback. I've had over 80 story alerts and 30 reviews for the first chapter alone. This pleases me greatly! I hope this chapter lives up to expectations! I know a lot of you were asking about Merlin's emotional state - here, I give it to you in bucketloads! Enjoy. :D_**

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><p>He managed to light the oil lamp without setting the surrounding hay bales alight – a minor miracle, given how violently his hands were shaking – but it did little to banish the eerie darkness that clung so resolutely to the far corners of the silent stable. The flickering flame cast crooked shadows across the hay-strewn floor as the wind howled outside; he shivered anew at the sound, twisting his cold hands into the baggy folds of his tunic.<p>

Something nudged him forcefully between his shoulder blades and he stumbled forwards a pace, reaching out to catch himself against the opposite stall. The horse that slumbered within – Arthur's tall, dark charger – spared him little more than a cursory glance before shifting his weight to the opposite hind leg and continuing to doze. _Good_. It was about time the flighty mount grew accustomed to these nightly disturbances. Merlin still sported faint bruises from the sharp nips that the prince's affronted horse had dealt him during those first two weeks . Apparently Cabal appreciated rude awakenings even less than his clotpole of a master.

There came an impatient whinny from the stall behind him. Merlin felt a weary half-smile tug unwillingly at his lips as he turned to face the culprit.

"Hello, you."

The grey mare nickered fondly, straining against the rope that spanned the front of her stall, lips parting as she made to nip his neckerchief. He moved in closer, letting her snuffle his tunic as he warmed his hands against her broad cheek bones, feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders slowly begin to ebb away. After long hours spent amid the hustle and bustle of the lower town, the relative silence of the stable was a blessing. The city seemed to grow stronger (and _louder_) with each passing day. Although many had been lost to the chilling embrace of the _Dorocha_, the empty houses had quickly been filled by those who had fled in terror from all corners of the kingdom to seek protection in the city; those who had lost everything, family and livestock alike, and wished to start a new life away from the deserted villages they had once called home.

When Merlin had visited the marketplace at noon, it had taken him the better part of an hour to squeeze his way through the crowds in order to purchase the items Gaius had requested. In many ways, it seemed that life for the townspeople was slowly returning to normal. And yet the grief was still tangible, like the cool dampness that clings to the air after a rainstorm. He had seen it in the forced smiles and lifeless eyes of the folk behind the market stalls; heard it in the brief moments of silence that had once been filled with the laughter of children at play. Daily life had resumed because the people had no other choice – but beneath the surface, Camelot wept.

After a moment, the horse seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss and shifted back a pace. Then her ears perked forwards and she turned her head, as always, towards the stable door; eager, expectant.

"Ailith." Merlin struggled to swallow past the painful lump in his throat, blinking hard as his eyes grew hot. "I'm sorry, he can't be here tonight. It's just me."

Dark, sorrowful eyes turned to meet his gaze and she lowered her head to nudge him gently in the stomach. Sighing – a harsh, uneven exhale – he ran a trembling hand down her neck and leaned in close to press their foreheads together. In the past, only Lancelot had been allowed to greet his loyal mount in this manner, but she didn't seem to mind that Merlin had adopted the action in his stead. She had grown fond of him even before her master's untimely demise, during the warm summer evenings when he and Lancelot would sit together long into the night, sometimes draining a wineskin between them as they talked, but often content merely to bask in the companionable silence and watch as dusk settled over the kingdom. On occasion, the wine and the heat and the relative silence of the stable would lull to sleep, and Lancelot would rouse him with a gentle shake and a soft chuckle; when he stood too quickly, large, strong hands were always there to steady him as he swayed, soon followed by an arm draped lightly across his shoulders to steer him back towards the castle_._ The knight had even carried him home once, when he'd been too comfortable and too lazy to move from the wooden bench he'd fallen asleep upon. Lancelot had paused, head tilted to one side as he gazed down at him, his lips slowly curving upwards in a quiet, deadly smile - a swift tug and a brief tangle of limbs later, Merlin had found himself slung over the older man's shoulder, watching as hay-strewn dirt gave way to the lush green grass of the training fields. The hour had been nearing midnight, so none save the evening watch had borne witness to his humiliation – although judging by the sheer number of amused glances he had received the following morning, their antics had been the talk of the guard barracks. Merlin's ears had burned for days.

_Fie_, there were so many memories associated with this place. He hadn't wanted to come back, not at first. But it was his duty; to Lancelot, to Ailith and to himself. They had made a promise to each other long ago that should one of them die, the other would take it upon himself to care for whomever would suffer the most. Gaius had been Merlin's first choice, of course – the elderly physician was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real father, disregarding the brief hours he had spent with Balinor prior to the man's death at the hands of Cenred's men. Arthur's welfare had also been at the forefront of his mind; however, knowing that Lancelot had already sworn an oath to protect the Pendragon bloodline, Merlin hadn't felt the need to ask.

Lancelot, admitting dolefully that he had no family beyond the bonds of brotherhood he had formed during his time in Camelot, had set aside the empty wineskin and turned to look at him, his eyes unusually sombre. _"Merlin...if I die, there'll be one less person watching your back. One less person to fatten you up when you get too skinny."_ The knight had nudged him in the ribs emphatically, nearly knocking him off the bench. _"So you'd need to take better care of yourself, understand? And look after Ailith. She doesn't trust the stablehands. If something happens to me, she'll want someone she likes."_

"_I doubt it'll come to that,"_ Merlin had argued softly, feeling a prickle of unease even at the thought. _"Chances are she'll be stuck with you until she's old enough to be put out to pasture. But,"_ he had added before Lancelot could interrupt, _"I promise that I'll look after her if anything happens to you. Which it won't. You've got me to rescue your sorry backside, remember?"_

Lancelot had sniffed a grin, tossing an arm across Merlin's shoulders. _"Well, then. I suppose that makes me invincible."_

He bit the inside of his cheek _hard_, closing his eyes against the burn of fresh tears. This was all his fault. Ancient prophecies had foretold of his greatness, but apparently he was doomed to stumble at every milestone – and it was only ever those he loved who paid the price. Will. Freya. Balinor. And now Lancelot. He had failed them all. Who would die next for the sake of his destiny? Guinevere? Percival? _Gaius? _No one was safe. He had already lost the one man in the five kingdoms from whom he had hidden nothing; the only friend who had known his deepest, darkest secrets and had loved him regardless. Lancelot had been more than a friend; he had been his confidant, his counsellor – his _brother_. And fate had snatched him away without even the chance for a proper goodbye.

Merlin's throat tightened painfully and the back of his nose stung and _gods_, would this never cease? More than two weeks had passed since that fateful night and yet the crushing weight of grief and guilt remained unchanged. How often had he prayed – _begged – _to awaken from this nightmare and find himself by the river in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, with Lancelot's cloak tucked snugly about him and the knight himself sound asleep by his side? He wished only to put things to rights. He should never have told Lancelot of his intentions in the first place; it had been his destiny to die in Arthur's place, he'd been certain of it. But now...now he simply didn't know _what_ to think. His heart insisted that Lancelot's death had been wrong – terribly, painfully wrong; and yet, deep down, something within him could sense that the balance of the world had been restored, that it had been Lancelot's fate to seal the veil. And that deep-down part of him felt _horrible_. Because fate and destiny be damned, it wasn't _fair!_

He had slept little of late, his dreams too often haunted by shapeless phantoms whose icy touch would startle him awake and leave him drenched in a cold sweat, trembling and nauseated and very much alone. The near-constant churning of his stomach had all but banished his appetite; food had lost its taste, and even sweetmeats were rendered dull and unappealing to his palate. Gaius had noticed, of course, but with so many of the townsfolk still requiring his attention, the physician was rarely in their chambers. Every morning, there would be a thick slice of bread and butter and a fat, crisp apple waiting for him on a plate at the worktable, and beside it a note bearing Gaius' small, neat handwriting that typically read _'Eat, Merlin. And be home in time for supper.'_ He ate as much of the bread as he could stomach, but could never bring himself to taste the apple. They had been Lancelot's favourite, after all.

"_So this is where you've been hiding."_

_Warmth blossomed in his chest and he glanced up with a smile, setting the polished gauntlet aside and flexing his stiff fingers. "I'm not hiding, I'm working. What's your excuse?"_

_Lancelot pushed himself away from the doorframe and dropped down onto the bench beside him. "Pilfered these from the kitchen," he brought his hand from behind his back, white teeth flashing in a wide grin, "and I needed to find a poor soul to share them with." The young knight passed him the larger of the two fruits, taking a bite out of his own and sighing happily as he reclined against the worktable, eyes sliding closed. "Apples, Merlin. The cure to all ills."_

"_Bad morning?"_

"_Long morning." The knight shook his head, fondness softening his features even as he heaved a disparaging sigh. "Gwaine and Percival. Honestly, they're no better than children."_

_Merlin ducked his head to hide his smile. "Who pushed who?"_

_Lancelot gave a derisive snort. "Do you even need to ask?"_

"_Fair point."_

"_Although," Lancelot reasoned thoughtfully around another bite, "it may have been a legitimate accident this time. And he seemed genuinely apologetic."_

"_I take it Percival didn't believe him?"_

_His friend quirked an eyebrow as he took another bite. "Would you?"_

"_Probably not."_

"_Mm." Soft, brown eyes caught his gaze for a moment, warmth and amusement burning in their depths, before dropping to the apple that was still cradled, un-tasted, in Merlin's hands. His brow creased fractionally. "Eat, Merlin. You're thin enough as it is."_

"_Yes, __**mother**__."_

The burning in his throat was unbearable now, the muscles so constricted that each inhalation came with a slight wheeze and _fie_, it hurt. Blood pulsed loudly in his ears, a deafening roar that thrummed to the rapid tattoo of his heartbeat, and his cheeks smarted with warmth, the frigid air of the stable now hot and oppressive around him. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with. Barely a moment passed during the day where he wasn't digging his nails into the palm of his hand or biting the inside of his cheek to deflect his focus from the brimming emotions that threatened to betray his true anguish. He couldn't let Arthur see him, not like this; the crown prince was guilt-ridden enough already, Merlin's grief would only add to the burden. But here, unseen by human eyes, he simply lacked the heart to fight against it. So he didn't.

His eyes slide closed as the first fat tears tumbled over his lashes and burned hot, wet trails down his cheeks. He pressed himself closer to the horse's side and let his head sag forwards against her neck, breath hitching and nose running. He wept for what felt like hours, until his eyes were sore from crying and the front of his neckerchief was soaked through. Ailith stood still and silent all the while, his shoulder tucked beneath her head as he clung loosely to her neck, tears dampening the fine, white hairs of her coat.

When his eyes finally ran dry and his chest ceased to heave and stutter with every miserable, hitching breath, he loosened his grip on her mane and let his arms fall wearily to his sides. Ailith nickered softly, dipping her head to nuzzle him in the back. He drew strength from her unwavering stability and took a deep, calming breath, stepping away from the horse on unsteady legs. He clutched at the wall of the stall when his knees threatened to buckle and waited, eyes closed, for the world to stop spinning.

Gods, he was tired.

He swiped a sleeve across cold cheeks – they stung beneath the rough fabric, raw from being damp overlong in the cool air of the stable. He stamped feeling back into his lower legs and made an effort to calm his breathing, curling and uncurling his hands to warm them as he turned to lean his shoulders back against the wooden partition. A strange kind of contentment had settled over him; it seemed as though the fog of his depression had lifted, albeit temporarily. He was sore, cold and utterly spent, but the pain in his chest had receded to a much more tolerable level. It would last him until the following evening, at any rate.

He ducked under the rope and turned back to face the horse, holding out his hand palm-upwards so that Ailith could press her warm, velvety muzzle into it.

"Thank you," he said, his voice low and rasping. "Think I needed that." The wind howled outside and he shuddered, pressing closer to her warmth. "Mind if I stay here a bit longer? Weather sounds awful out there." He cleared his throat and swallowed, suddenly wishing he had possessed the foresight to bring a waterskin with him. His mouth felt awfully dry. He heaved a sigh, shaking his head self-deprecatingly. "I'm not doing so well tonight am I, old girl? Forgot your apple an' all."

"Then it's a good thing I brought a spare."

Cold terror shot through him at the voice and he started violently, spinning around on the spot to face the newcomer, his heart hammering frantically against his ribcage. Standing just inside the doorway, his hair a little windswept and his cheeks rosy from the cold but as noble and eminent as ever in his billowing red cloak, was Sir Leon.

Oh, _fie_.

_~TBC~_

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><p><em><strong>Chapter 3 WILL be posted within the next fortnight. If I fail to do so, please feel free to send me death threats and cyber-abuse until I drag myself from my cocoon of post-exam-period laziness and update. I'm counting on two ladies in particular. Poke me. With sharp poking implements. <strong>_

_**It's probably going to be quite a lengthy affair - I'm only halfway through and the word count's already topping 2500. I'm also more excited about it than I've been about any other chapter EVER. Did I mention how much I love Leon? Once or twice, perhaps? :P**_

**_Also...who else wept buckets during last week's episode of Merlin? The final scene between Lancelot and Merlin broke my heart, but was beautifully filmed and acted and scripted. "Merlin...thank you." Simply breathtaking. It made me cry all the more when I was proof-reading this chapter._**

**_I'm also ECSTATIC that they've confirmed a full 13 episode series for next year. Commissioned due to the dedication of it's rapidly growing fanbase. Sure, writers, sure - we all know the truth. You're just terrified that us fangirls will come pounding on your door armed with guns and typewriters and force you to feed our addiction if you ever dared to leave us high and dry after only four series. ER lasted 14. I dare you to do better. ;)_**

**_See you soon, folks!_**

**_xxx_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**New Year's greetings, dear readers!**_

_**Again, my apologies for the slightly belated update. It was Christmas. I have siblings. The hours just get swallowed up in endless games of Cluedo and Articulate and hours upon hours of 90's Christmas cartoons. It was all rather spectacular. :)**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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><p><strong><em>.<em>**

_Just inside the doorway, his hair a little windswept and his cheeks rosy from the cold but as noble and eminent as ever in his billowing red cloak, stood Sir Leon._

_Oh, fie._

o~O~o

A myriad of emotions ran through him – fear, embarrassment, anger, guilt – but he forced these aside and instead groped desperately for the mask of indifference that he usually wore in the older man's company. Although he doubted it would do him much good; he felt disgusting, so heaven knows what he _looked_ like. His cheeks still burned with a post-weeping flush that would have darkened his waxen skin a pinkish hue. His eyes, which always _had_ shown a maddening propensity to remain red and puffy long after his tears had dried up, were likely to appear downright demonic given his current state, and there was little chance that the nobleman would miss something so obvious. Resignation settled upon him like a leaden mantle and he sighed tiredly, letting his shoulders slump beneath the weight of his fatigue.

"Leon," he greeted, returning his gaze to Ailith and petting her muzzle simply to give his trembling hands something to do. "You're up late."

"So it seems." Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the knight shift a bulging sackcloth from one hand to the other. "Apparently I'm not the only one."

"Mm." Merlin coughed to clear his throat of the gunk that seemed determined to make his voice waver. "Couldn't sleep."

Footsteps approached him slowly, fabric fluttered, and then Leon was standing beside him and heaving a weary sigh of his own. "That makes two of us. Thought I'd go for stroll, clear my head. I've had a lot on my mind of late."

Desperate to focus the conversation on anything but his own sorry state, Merlin schooled his features and managed an almost genuinely interested, "Oh? Anything I can help with?"

"Perhaps." The nobleman moved to stand opposite him, a fond smile curling at his lips when Ailith nickered in greeting and snuffed at his windswept curls. "See, there's this lad I know," he began slowly, reaching up to brush his fingers through the horse's forelock. "He hasn't been himself lately. And I understand his need to grieve – we're all grieving, in our own way - but I'm concerned about his health. He's not eating. He's not sleeping. And what's worse, he doesn't seem to think that anybody cares enough to notice."

A lump had formed in Merlin's throat for the hundredth time that evening. He could feel the weight of Leon's gaze upon him, but he didn't dare lift his head; the sheen of tears would be glaringly obvious in the lamplight.

"And his friends aren't quite sure how to help him," the knight continued as his right hand came to settle across the bridge of the horse's muzzle, an inch away from Merlin's idly stroking fingers, "because he won't talk to us. Actually, he's been avoiding us altogether." There was a brief pause, then a large, warm hand closed around his elbow, the grip firm and reassuring. "He needs to know that he's not alone."

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the traitorous burning of his eyes. Gods, how long had they been watching him? _Worrying_ about him? He had been so careful in avoiding them, knowing how quickly Elyan, ever the quiet and perceptive one, would pick up on his inner torment. Hiding his upset – and, more importantly, _himself_ – from Gwaine had been the harder task; the burly knight had a habit of stumbling (often quite literally) upon every hiding place in the castle. But Merlin had thought that a forced smile and a well-placed joke had been enough to convince the older man that all was well; or as well as it could be for any of them, in light of recent events. Clearly Gwaine was more intuitive than he gave him credit for.

And now Leon had sought him out. Despite the lateness of the hour, he had abandoned the warmth of his chambers and traipsed through muddy training fields in the middle of an Autumn gale, all in search of _Merlin_.

It was something that Lancelot would have done for him without comment, and Merlin wouldn't have though to question it because that was _Lancelot_, and it was simply how things had existed between them. But the others? Leon had said 'we', the term that tended to encompass all four remaining 'knights of the round table', as they had taken to calling themselves. Were they all equally as concerned for his welfare? Gods, had they been_ discussing_him?

They considered him a friend, he knew that. But for them to think of him amid their own grief - to actively seek him out because they feared for his health; because they wanted to ease his suffering...

Hell, he was going to cry again.

"Merlin?" Another hand, as warm and gentle as the first, settled lightly upon his shoulder. "Why don't we sit down for a moment? You look dead on your feet. Talking can wait."

Leon began to steer him towards the row of short wooden benches that sat against the back wall of the stable. Merlin had to force himself not to dig in his heels and run in the opposite direction as bittersweet memories of those long summer evenings rose to the surface. He sat down dazedly, nodding his compliance when Leon pressed a waterskin into his hands and told him to drink. His fingers felt strangely numb and it took longer than it should have to uncork the neck, but the water tasted cool and refreshing on his parched tongue and he drank eagerly, spilling a little in the process and shivering as it ran down his neck and beneath the collar of his shirt.

When he glanced up again, the knight was standing beside Ailith's stall, slicing into an apple with the knife from his belt and feeding it to the horse piece by piece. When he was certain that the other man's attention was fully focused on the grey mare, he reached up to surreptitiously wipe the brimming moisture from his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart and gripping the waterskin tightly in his left hand to keep it from trembling.

"You shouldn't blame yourself, you know," Leon spoke, his gaze still trained on Ailith as she took another slice of apple from his upturned palm. "None of this was your fault."

Merlin suddenly wished that he hadn't consumed quite so much water. It churned ferociously in his stomach - a cold, sickly ache that threatened to make its way back up again at any given moment. He set the waterskin aside carefully and took another deep breath, wrapping his arms about his midriff and catching tight fistfuls of his baggy tunic. Surely Leon didn't expect him to talk? _Fie_, in his current state he could scarcely draw breath.

"I know you feel differently. I know that you realise there was little you could have done to prevent it all from happening, but you choose to blame yourself regardless. And I understand why...perhaps better than most." The bearded knight glanced towards him briefly, his face grave, his eyes clouded and weary and so very, very _old_. "To ride out knowing beyond all doubt that the battle is to be your last, with a comforting certainty in your heart that your death will serve to protect those you love." He paused, and his hand tightened around the hilt of the dagger. "Only to then find yourself the lone survivor of a patrol party of forty men, staring at the broken corpses of friends and kinsmen for whom you would have lain down your life in an instant."

The nobleman's voice had taken on a bitter tone and, though his face remained impassive, a fierce sorrow seemed to burn behind his eyes. Then he shuddered and blinked, coming to himself again, his back straightening imperceptibly. "It would be my honour to die protecting Camelot and her people, Merlin. To fall so that my brothers might endure... that is the life we freely choose when we swear the oath of fealty; there isn't a man among us who wouldn't sacrifice himself to save Arthur."

Merlin looked away, hands curling into fists. _But Lancelot didn't sacrifice himself for Arthur's sake_, he wanted to say.

He had died saving _Merlin_.

"Lancelot knew what he was doing." Leon wiped the dagger clean on the sleeve of his tunic and re-sheathed it smoothly, his hand lingering on the hilt as his gaze drifted to the floor. "It was a brave and noble death, one that any knight would be proud of. Although that offers little in the way of comfort for those who mourn him."

Merlin felt anger coil up within him. He was speaking before he could stop himself. "It wasn't his destiny to die as a...as a _sacrifice.__"_

"Nor was it yours."

"But I'm just a ser-"

"Don't." Leon's voice was hard, sharp.

Surprise made him glance up again, only to find a pair of keen, cobalt eyes boring into him.

"A man's worth isn't always defined by his status," the knight went on, his tone softening. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You taught me that."

Merlin said nothing, lowering his gaze again as his face began to heat up. Leon gave Ailith a parting caress before moving to sit down beside him on the bench, their shoulders barely a hair's breadth apart. A moment of silence passed, tense and uncomfortable. Merlin felt the older man shift uneasily.

"Merlin, we...we should talk."

Despite the intermingled grief and dismay that surged up within him at the suggestion, Merlin felt his lips twitch. "I thought we already were?"

Leon huffed a short, surprised laugh. "Ah. There you are." His shoulder bumped against Merlin's and stayed there; a solid, reassuring warmth. "Feeling better?"

Merlin nodded, twisting his fingers in the loose fabric of his tunic and staring resolutely at his knees.

The knight leaned across him to grab the sackcloth from the far end of the bench. "Hungry?"

"No. Not really." He ran his tongue over his cracked lower lip. "Sorry."

Leon sighed again, more quietly this time. "Merlin, you need to eat." The older man's shoulder pressed into his a little more firmly. "You shouldn't deny yourself food, not out of guilt. If this is a way of punishing yourself, it _must_stop. I won't stand by and watch you starve. None of us will."

_"Come on, I'm getting you off work early." Hands slid beneath his arms to haul him upright and Merlin squawked in protest as he was unceramoniously dragged from the armoury. "Don't worry, I've already cleared it with Arthur. He'd been intending to dine with his father tonight anyway."_

_"Where exactly are we going?" Merlin queried, trying to shake his wrist free of Lancelot's grip and failing miserably._

_"To dinner. And I expect you to eat twice as much as I do." White teeth flashed in a teasing smile as a finger prodded him in the ribs. "You're far too skinny, peasant boy."_

His eyes burned anew. Lancelot had forever been nagging him about his weight. Although it hadn't always been Merlin's fault; his face tended to look gaunt if he so much as skipped breakfast. Compared to the gangly, stick-like thing he'd been as a boy back in Ealdor – all knobbly knees and sharp angles – his body had never looked healthier. He had more food at his disposal here in Camelot than he'd ever had at home. Lancelot had always insisted that he needed to eat more, but therein lay the cusp of it; Merlin wasn't _used_ to such a rich diet. Back in Ealdor, eating your fill meant that you wouldn't go to bed hungry, and that was a luxury often only reserved for three out of the four seasons. Winters had never been kind to them.

"Merlin?"

He swallowed back the nausea, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please. I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are," Leon pressed, not unkindly. "You've just forgotten what hunger feels like. There's a hollow ache inside you that doesn't go away even when you eat your fill, and a sickly feeling that worsens at the thought of food. Eating has lost its appeal because everything tastes like ash in your mouth and sits like lead in your stomach. Avoiding food altogether seems like the lesser of two evils, does it not?"

Merlin could only stare at him, wide-eyed. Leon smiled, a mere twitch of the lips, but his eyes when they caught Merlin's gaze were sombre.

"I know what it's like to lose someone irreplaceable, Merlin. There are days when you wish yourself dead because that seems like the easier option. Days when it feels as though you'll drown in the grief and guilt and shame of it all. But I promise you, it _does _get better, in time." Leon's voice was low, rumbling murmur, and although Merlin could not see the knight's expression (his knees had suddenly become _very_ interesting), he could hear the warmth that would be reflected there.

"It will be a long, slow process, and some days will seem as dark and hopeless as the first," the low voice rumbled, a soothing balm to the painful turmoil of emotions that roared within him, "but even the deepest wounds heal with time. And until that day dawns, it is your duty to honour him by _living_. Otherwise his death was for nought."

Merlin's breeches blurred as his eyes misted over. His throat ached and his head throbbed and _gods be __damned,_ he was going to cry in front of Leon.

"Merlin. Please," the knight murmured. "We've already lost one brother. Don't make us bury another."

The tears brimmed over, falling swiftly to leave two darkened ovals on the fabric of his breeches.

A warm hand settled across the nape of his neck, squeezing gently, before sliding over to grip his far shoulder. The solid weight of the muscular arm across his back spread a renewed warmth through his limbs and he sagged into the hold gratefully, swiping a sleeve across his stinging eyes. The arm tugged, lightly at first but then with renewed purpose, and before he knew what was happening Merlin found himself wrapped up in what could only be described as an embrace.

It was hardly a foreign experience; Lancelot had never been one to shy away from physical contact, particularly when he sensed that Merlin needed it. And Gwaine's bone-crushing hugs, although often quite painful, were as commonplace as Elyan's reassuring shoulder-squeezes or Percival's affectionate-but-jarring backslaps.

But Leon? The man had never gone beyond a gentle squeeze at the nape of his neck or a fond hair-ruffle. The whole thing should have felt a good deal more awkward than it did, all things considered. He was still crying, for heaven's sake. Perhaps he was just too tired to care any more.

After several minutes, he pulled back shyly, dragging a sleeve across his face again to wipe away the last of the tears with a mumbled "sorry".

"Don't be," Leon replied, reaching for the waterskin, his shoulder still pressing solidly against Merlin's. He poured a little water onto a handkerchief that he had produced from somewhere on his person, folding the cloth into a long strip and passing it to Merlin with a soft smile. "Hold that against your eyes for a minute or two, it'll help with the sting."

Merlin did so, leaning his head back against the wall of the stable and sighing in relief as the cool, damp fabric soothed the painful burning of his overtired eyes. Leon pressed the waterskin into his hands again and urged him to drink; he obeyed without complaint, too weary and contented to put up a fuss.

The scent of food hit his nostrils and he was surprised to find that, despite his earlier protests to the contrary, he genuinely _wanted_ to eat. Not much, mind, but it was a start. It had been a while since he'd last felt hungry. Tugging off the cold compress, he blinked to clear his blurred vision, eyes squinting even in the low, flickering light of the oil lamp.

"Here." The knight smiled knowingly as he passed him a thick chunk of bread, soft and white and sprinkled with seeds. "And there's cheese and dried meats and apples to go with that. But let's see how you manage the bread first. I take it you haven't eaten since this morning?"

Merlin felt his face heat up. "Not really." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Wasn't all that hungry."

"Well, you'd best make up for it now, then. Now," the knight said cheerfully, slouching down on the bench and crossing his ankles, "did I ever tell you about the time that Arthur fell down a well in the lower town?"

Merlin had to swallow quickly to keep from choking, shooting the older man a startled look. "He what?"

"No? How negligent of me. " Leon shot him a lazy grin, his eyes alight with amusement. "You're going to like this one. It happened years ago, back when Arthur was still a lad - fourteen summers at most. King Uther had asked me to supervise his son's training; I had taken the oath some months earlier and was still trying to find my place amongst the older, more experienced knights of Camelot, so I was eager to prove my worth. Perhaps a little too eager..."

Merlin smiled to himself, nibbling on the bread as he listened to the nobleman's tale, feeling a hollow within him slowly begin to fill. And it wasn't just the food.

He felt better than he had in weeks. He'd eat anything and everything the knight placed in his hands; after what Leon had done for him this evening, he owed him that. That and so much more.

He might even manage an apple.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Thanks for reading, folks! I hope you've enjoyed it. <em>**

**_After much deliberation, I decided that this ending was simply too fitting to change. I'd initially intended to extend the story to five chapters, but I feel all the issues I'd wanted to address have already been answered and resolved by Leon, the wonderful man that he is. So instead this story is now complete. And after several months of silence, I'm now preparing to write another story. Incoming Grapefruit, folks! Beware!_**

**_Toodles! xxx_**


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